Page 40 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
The guy backs off, hands up, eyes wide. He back pedals.
“No, man. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I grab his shirt because I can’t stop myself, even knowing it’s the absolute wrong fucking thing to do. But he’s crossed a line I didn’t know was there, a line I now have a hard time forgiving.
“Finn, it’s all right.” Vivvie puts a hand on my arm. “He’s apologized.”
“No. He hasn’t.” I’m breathing hard, but her hand can’t be ignored. It’s like some kind of magic calming Taser, paralyzing my anger, my irrational reptile brain.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—I mean—I’m sorry.” The man is no older than I am and a hell of a lot smaller. I let go of his jacket and back off, my heart still thudding violently, but slowing. When Vivvie’s hand reassures me with a squeeze, I turn away from the scared guy and face her, ignoring the small knot of people that has formed.
“Let’s go,” she whispers. The invitation moves me, and the driving excitement of a few moments ago is gone. We step around the crowd, acknowledging people who smile and nod at us with approval. Fuck. Half a dozen phones are out with people filming us and tapping away, busy sending the incident out to feed the bottomless thirst of social mediaphiles.
At the end of the block we take a left and she starts trotting. I pick up my pace and, before we know it, we’re running as if we’re being chased, ending up at the door to her building in a narrow alley-like street, breathing hard and heavy. She unlocks the door and we spill inside. I drag her, taking two steps at a time. The excitement pumping through me surpasses what I felt at the coffee shop as I find myself inside her studio, the intimacy unavoidable with the small size, the smell and feel of her in everything about it. Her Japanese cherry blossom scent lingers in the air, the sheer white curtains on the one window drape to the floor in a romantic sweep, and the enormous poster of Renoir’sDancers at Bougival dominates the wall behind her.
The details pop out at me now, though I’ve always gotten the romantic feel of her space deep down whether I realized it or not. She’s a diehard romantic, the kind of woman who would drive me crazy if I let her.Which I’m not.
Unconvincing thought for a guy who earlier showed up at her door with roses.
It’s like I have a fever and I don’t know where it comes from, but I keep getting hotter every second. And I know she’s the cause, but I can’t stay away because we’re forced into this situation.
But no one forced me to come here today to see her. So who the fuck am I kidding?
“Finn.” There’s a desperate note to her voice. “Don’t leave this time.” She tugs me forward, as if I need any more provocation. There’s no place to go in this tiny place. I back her up to the small island that separates her kitchenette from the living room, my face close to hers, breathing her in, getting drunker with each inhale.
“Are you sure, Vivvie?” I force the words out. She slams her mouth to mine in answer, sucking in my lips and darting her tongue, demanding a response. So I give it to her. Devouring her mouth, exploring every luscious corner of it with my tongue, I cup my hands on her ass and lift her onto the counter.
When I slip my hands under her skirt and tug at the tights, she wriggles and lifts herself so I can tear them off, our lips coming apart, Her breath is heavy in my ear, churning the desire, making my cock swell and push against my zipper. But I keep my eye on the prize. My need to make Vivvie come, to see her fall apart in my arms, to watch her face when she loses it. Her boots and tights off, with her panties caught up in them as I toss them on the floor, I push her skirt up to her waist and spread her legs.
Looking into her eyes now, breathing fast, I touch her face. My hands are shaking but I don’t care. I lean my forehead against hers.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I say. “I want to see your beautiful face when you come.”
Her eyes widen with that excitement that I can tell goes down to her bone marrow, nothing hidden in her look. Trepidation is there, anticipation and . . . I don’t want to see past that to the adoration clear as a warning sign on her face. So I smash my mouth into hers and drink from her soul to find that pure desire, to let it seep into me and make it my own.
Then I spread her legs with my body standing between them and I lower a hand from her face, caressing her delicate throat as I go, feeling the rapid fire pulse, skimming over her breast, squeezing as I do, and then go lower. When I reach between her legs, touching the hot delicate skin of her upper thighs, she jumps and I stop, separating from her. I look into her eyes. Her pupils are fully dilated and her arms squeeze around me.
“Don’t stop. Please don’t.”
“I won’t,” I say, keeping my eyes on hers, still holding her head with one hand so I can watch her. My fingers vibrate with the enormity of the gift she’s giving me. Her pussy is soft and so hot. Testing her with a stroke deeper, I finger aside the folds and press into the warmth to find the creamy moisture of her desire, the fulfillment of what I see in her eyes.
Her mouth opens and she squirms to my touch. With a long slow stroke, I move my finger up and down and find the sweet wet nub. I flick and she cries out again, pumping her hips up, arching her back, clamping her hands on my shoulders.
“You’re so hot, so sexy. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” I ask.
She starts to say something incoherent, because she still doesn’t know a rhetorical question when she hears it, and I smile as I kiss her, small kisses on her mouth, her cheek, her nose, and her chin.
Lowering myself to kiss her neck, I have no intention of stopping there because there’s nothing I want more than to kiss her pussy right now. Nothing can stop my craving to taste her. I need to see her come almost as much, but I don’t stop as I lower my head between her legs, enjoying the gasp as she pulls on my shoulders and tries to clamp her legs shut.
But I don’t let her, pushing them apart and lowering my mouth with greedy need, I take her lower lips inside and suck. She screams and digs her hands into my shoulders.
“Oh my God. Finn.”
The way she says my name, the vibration I feel shaking her thighs, turns me on so hard I almost want to palm myself while I lick her. But I keep my hands on her thighs because the plump feel of them is irresistible. Exploring her pussy with my tongue, I can feel how swollen she is, how wet and creamy. When I flick the solid marble of her clit, she clamps her thighs and cries out, so I swirl and flick to keep hearing it, to feel her shake like she’s going to explode. And when she does, she screams my name loud and I lift my head, replacing my tongue with my fingers as she clamps her thighs closed in a convulsive move. I hold her, watching her face, so beautiful as she rides the waves of her orgasm around my fingers.
Raining small kisses over her face, I murmur how beautiful she is, how special she is, and I mean it. She’s holding me tight now, with more strength than I’ve felt before, and then she does something that makes me smile. At first.
She brings a hand to her heart. And clamps it there, separating from me.
